


Like A Bridge Over Troubled Water

by cagethesongbird



Series: A(geplay) Corp [4]
Category: Mr. Robot (TV)
Genre: Accidents, Age Play, Age Regression/De-Aging, Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Awkward Conversations, Blood and Injury, Caregiver Darlene Alderson, Caregiver Tyrell Wellick, Caretaking, Crying, Diapers, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Little Elliot, M/M, Minor Injuries, Non-Sexual Age Play, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Panic Attacks, Sibling Love, Stuffed Toys, Wetting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-02
Updated: 2020-03-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:33:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22981789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cagethesongbird/pseuds/cagethesongbird
Summary: Darlene calls Elliot in the middle of the night, needing him desperately despite her promises to step away from their dangerous lifestyle. Elliot goes to her, like he always would, but things have changed for him.Darlene gets hurt, and Elliot ends up little from the stress. Darlene learns to accept this new part of her big (little) brother. Tyrell helps.
Relationships: Darlene Alderson & Elliot Alderson, Elliot Alderson & Tyrell Wellick, Elliot Alderson/Tyrell Wellick
Series: A(geplay) Corp [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1617634
Comments: 8
Kudos: 59





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> the feedback from yall has been so amazing.. i really love love lovee writing these. enjoy :)

Elliot’s cell goes off in the middle of the night.

Always the light sleeper, Elliot fumbles for it before the first ring is over. He moves carefully, trying not to disturb Tyrell, who’s carved a comfortable niche for himself in Elliot’s side. Tyrell unconsciously slurs something not quite English, flinging an arm over his head.

Elliot flips the phone over in his hands, and strains his eyes against the sudden brightness of the caller ID.

_DOLORES HAZE._

He slides up on accept call. “Darlene?”

Darlene is breathless on the other end, huffing and heaving. Her voice echoes faintly, like she may be in the subway. Her footsteps on pavement jostle the airwaves, making staticky sounds in Elliot’s closely cupped ear. He winces.

 _“Elliot.”_ Her voice is tinny over the phone, strange to him as he sits in the dark. Strikingly unfamiliar.

Elliot’s brain takes a moment to catch up before he’s out of bed, tripping over tangled sheets, nearly trampling poor Flipper –

“Elliot?” Tyrell murmurs, his voice thick and crackly with sleep. He groggily props himself up on one elbow, scrubbing at the sleep in his eyes. His hair that goes meticulously styled in the daytime is splayed at all angles.

“I’m coming,” Elliot whispers into the phone, voice high and strained. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

He hangs up and throws his cell aside, rifling around for clothes, pulling on whatever his hands grope at first. Behind him, Flipper jumps up on the bed, snuffling at Tyrell for sympathy. Tyrell gives her a scritch behind the ears.

“Elliot?” Tyrell calls softly, mindful of how easily Elliot startles. “Babe?”

Elliot whips around with his hoodie half shrugged on, confused, like he’s just remembering his boyfriend exists. Flipper whines indignantly at him.

“Hey,” Elliot says, and he glances around the room like a small, skittish animal. “I gotta – I need to go.”

Tyrell blinks stupidly, his hand stilling on Flipper, fingers caught in her fur. “What?” His voice is completely dubious. “Where?”

“Darlene – she needs me.”

“Elliot. It’s the middle of the night,” Tyrell says. He knows that siblings are important, and that Elliot loves Darlene very much, but he doesn’t really understand – whatever it is can wait until morning, surely. Darlene had decided to lay off the heroics, same as them. She wouldn’t have gone back on that.

Right?

“She needs me,” Elliot repeats. “I can’t – I’ve fucked up with her before, okay? She needs me.”

Tyrell pushes himself off the bed, earning a displeased little sound from Flipper, who’s already had her feelings hurt once tonight. “I’m coming with you, then.”

Elliot freezes. He’s completely caught off guard. He’d expected a _no, don’t go, come back to bed,_ but not an offer of company. His heart squeezes with sudden affection – Tyrell was willing to go wherever the hell Darlene was, in the dark, with his hair still mussed and his pajama pants still hanging off his hips. Just like that.

Just for Elliot. Just because it mattered to him.

Still, this was Darlene they were talking about. Sharp-tongued, crass, angry – but uniquely sensitive, Darlene. He and Tyrell had been together for long enough that Darlene knew, not that they were hiding it any, and she didn’t seem to care one way or the other.

But that didn’t mean she wouldn’t resent Tyrell’s presence. Resent him distracting Elliot from her in a time of need. Were positions reversed, Elliot honestly couldn’t say he would be any different.

“I don’t know,” Elliot says slowly, shaking his head. Tyrell can read between the lines. He won’t going with him.

Elliot glances at his phone again – a string of text messages has popped up on the screen, demanding his attention in their unhappy gray bubbles. He really needs to get moving.

“Elliot,” Tyrell says, and loosely snags hold of Elliot’s wrist. Elliot looks from Tyrell, to the broad hand clasping his own, and back to Tyrell again.

“I have to,” Elliot says. His eyes are deep in the dim light, pools of dark, serious green. He peers into Tyrell’s light ones. “You know I have to.”

“Think of yourself,” Tyrell says. He gently presses Elliot’s knuckles to his face, right below his nose, and holds them there. His skin is still sleep-warm. “Just this once, be a little selfish.”

The implication of his words hang heavy, weighing down Elliot’s hurry. It glues his anxious feet to the floor, and he stills, searching Tyrell’s face.

Of course, he would never consider Darlene a source of his trauma. She was merely a reminder of it, a casualty pulled from the same wreckage he was. As hard as that alone was to cope with, he was all too aware she could easily send him in a downward spiral, should something upsetting come up.

But Tyrell means more than that; the conflict of Elliot’s sister versus his memories had been twisted inside him forever. This was the new, complicated layer of Elliot’s littleness, piled on top of everything else.

Since he and Tyrell had begun playing, he’d become much more susceptible to drop, and run for the safety of Tyrell’s arms when things got hard to bear.

He’d come to rely on the comfort and reassurance of age play, rather than his old, less-than-healthy habits. It served as the ultimate monster-repellant. Lord knew Elliot had his share of monsters.

Darlene, no matter how his adult-self viewed her, was going to be difficult for the little boy he sometimes was. New and different, brass and strange – lots of connected emotions and vulnerabilities. Elliot can just feel the reaction now.

He cringes internally, not wanting to imagine how his sister might respond to see him reduced to a toddler.

But it’s _Darlene._ His only sibling, his very first friend. He can’t just tuck himself back in bed, let Tyrell rock him to sleep, tempting though it was. He has to go to her. She’d do the very same for him.

Absolutely. Without any kind of doubt, Elliot knows his sister would drop everything for him.

He draws himself up and pulls away from Tyrell. It’s borderline painful, but he does it, and refuses to acknowledge the look of deep concern pinching at Tyrell’s pretty face.

“I’ll be okay,” Elliot says. He catches Tyrell’s lips in a warm, indulgent kiss – a promise. Silently sealing the deal that he’ll come back in one piece.

“Please be careful,” Tyrell murmurs, looking away. He doesn’t seem to believe in Elliot’s kiss. “Call me if you need me. I’m here.”

“I will. I swear I will,” Elliot says firmly. He wonders which one of them needs the reassurance more. Then, as if it had suddenly occurred to him, he says, “And. I love you.” 

It’s still such a rare occurrence for Elliot to want to say it out loud, but Tyrell seems to need it, badly, before Elliot throws himself into what may very well be harm’s way. He gives a hand raised in goodbye.

Tyrell looks like he might cry. “I love you, too, Elliot. Very much.”

The address Darlene sent leads him to an abandoned warehouse, tucked into an inconspicuous corner of Manhattan. He isn’t surprised. Ever since they were kids, they’d favored spots like this. It was a comfort, to be hidden in plain sight.

The door is locked, but Elliot picks it easily. His hands tremble through it, but his technique, tried and true, doesn’t falter. He gives himself a mental pat on the back for that.

“Darlene?”

“Elliot!” The few overhead lights are dim, and Elliot’s shadow trails long and skinny behind him.

Darlene is collapsed in on herself, wheezing shallowly. She’s slouched against the far wall, trying and failing to prop herself up with her soft knapsack. Her long fingers are pressed hard against her abdomen, dripping an alarming red. Her face contorts as she unsuccessfully tries to hide her pain.

She’s been stabbed.

“Jesus _Christ_.” Elliot drops to his knees in front of his sister. If he were a praying man, he might shoot something off to God, but he doesn’t have a religion. He has first-aid supplies – he thinks – and has done enough simple stitches that he can deal with this. He could do it in his sleep.

But…

He’s scared. He’s so scared, and so worried about his sister, that he can feel himself begin to get small. Instead of freaking out, breaking things, or running to hide within itself, his brain now does this. It’s a fuzzy haze that settles over him, over his ability to focus, over his strength to deal. He’s no longer the adult he’s supposed to be.

Tears prickle in the corners of his eyes.

Oh, God. _Why_ hadn’t he just let Tyrell come with him? Why did he insist on doing everything alone?

“ – hack gone wrong, but I didn’t think they’d come for _me._ My fuckin’ mistake, man, I’ll have to reroute all my… Hey, are you okay?” Darlene’s voice cuts into Elliot’s thoughts.

Elliot nods stiffly, and zeros all his energy on threading the needle he finds. He begins stitching Darlene up. Every movement is forced, muscle memory leading him through the thick of it. He’s floating far away and doesn’t really register what Darlene is saying.

“ – fucking stings! Be gentle, will you –“

Elliot cleans the wound, swabbing a half dry alcohol pad across it. Darlene hisses uncomfortably through her teeth. He hands her a fat, patch-sized bandage, and as soon as she has it, bolts for the bathroom. In his haste to get away, he stumbles over his own two feet.

The floodgates burst, and he’s sobbing before he even locks the door. He tries to muffle the ugly sound with the sleeve of his hoodie, but there’s blood everywhere: his hands, his wrists, slinking up his sleeves and spotted on his pants.

Blood means death, and he can’t watch another person die, he can’t he can’t he can’t he _can’t,_ especially not Darlene, please, not _his sister - !_

Elliot wedges himself in the corner of the bathroom, shaking hard. He just wants to be small and hidden. He wants to melt into the mildewy tile.

He brings his knees to his chest and hugs tightly, tucking his head between them. As he sits, he realizes he’s wet himself, and the soiled fabric is making his thighs itch. He can’t recall when it happened, and it makes him cry that much harder. Not just because it’s completely pathetic, but what if Darlene had _seen?_

He splutters, wiping at his face profusely, only managing to smear snot across it. He’s sure he looks like pure shit, but it’s really not his most pressing issue. He’s scared and wet and alone, in the dark, in a place he doesn’t know. His sister needs him, and he can’t move. He’s too broken to help.

He wants out of here. He wants Crescent. He wants his binky. He wants everything to stop _,_ stop being so hard. Stop being so bad and scary and difficult.

More than anything, though, he wants Tyrell.

He wants Tyrell to make Darlene feel all better. He wants Tyrell to make _him_ feel all better. He wants Tyrell to take care of him, as he’s in the sort of mindset where he can admit that. He doesn’t want to worry about anything but being cuddled close.

Elliot coughs, slightly woozy, like he might throw up. That’s what his panic did to him: made him feel physically ill, as if the mental sickness wasn’t enough.

He badly wants to jam two fingers in his mouth, to try and self-soothe, but they’re covered in dried, bloody grime. He hiccups, forcing his hands away. Silent tears still crawl down his cheeks.

He truly doesn’t know what to do. He’s supposed to be a big boy right now, and big boys know how to take care of themselves – mostly. But he’s not. He’s helpless and tiny and afraid.

He wasn’t intending to fall apart at the sight of Darlene in pain. He’s been through hell with her – a little blood should be no problem. It definitely shouldn’t send him into a panic attack, his hold on adultness completely dissolved. Yet, here he was.

Maybe he’ll just sit here forever. Or until ‘Rell finds him and makes all the hurt go away. Whichever comes first.

It isn’t long until Elliot hears the footsteps. Heavy, approaching footsteps, coming for him, thundering like the Giant who got Jack. Fear seizes him, and he wets again without meaning to.

“It was a panic attack, I’m sure of it,” Darlene’s voice comes from outside of the bathroom. “What I don’t understand is why –”

“Give him a break, please.” Elliot strains to listen, thinking he knows that voice, too. “This isn’t the kind of thing that you can just… jump back into. Not after walking away. And we all decided it was time to retire, remember?”

“Yeah, whatever, asshole,” Darlene’s voice is sharp. Elliot doesn’t like it at all. “Not all of us have comfy corporate jobs. All of us have to eat.”

There’s a faint knocking on the door, sounding a million miles away. Elliot covers his eyes, not caring how gross his hands are, because it’s the best way he knows to hide.

“Elliot. It’s me, my baby. It’s Tyrell.”

 _Tyrell._ Elliot grabs at nothing, desperately reaching for his caregiver. He cries out, a nonsense of emotional babble. Oh, how he wants Tyrell! How he wants to be held and soothed and taken away from this awful place!

“Yeah, baby, yeah.” Tyrell’s voice is a calm, warm ocean, washing over Elliot. His renewed tears are of pure, joyous relief. “Can you open the door for me?”

He can’t. The door is so far away, and he’s so little. He shakes his head, so Tyrell knows.

Silence for a moment, and then, “Can you pick it?”

There’s fumbling, and a jiggling of the door handle before it pops open. Tyrell pushes through, and Elliot cries out for him, bursting into new hysterics. He’s scrambling to stand, cramped muscles protesting in pain. He’s not even aware of what he’s saying, only that it’s a lot of _‘Rell_ and a lot of _please_.

“What the fuck?” Darlene asks, eyes wide with shock and alarm.

Elliot cringes, pausing his pursuit, and hunches in on himself. He knows he’s awful. She’s right to be disgusted with him.

“Give us a minute,” Tyrell says to Darlene, though his eyes are on Elliot. She doesn’t look happy to be edged out, but doesn’t fight when Tyrell shuts the door on her.

Elliot is on his feet, finally, and launches himself at Tyrell. Tyrell, who smells like way-too-expensive cologne, like their preferred laundry detergent, like Flipper’s slight doggy stink. Like home. Like safe.

“Oh, _sötnos._ My babe,” Tyrell murmurs, hoisting Elliot into his arms and holding him close, close enough to hear his heartbeat. Elliot gives one final, shaky sob, and buries his face in Tyrell’s shoulder. He inhales deeply, treasuring that scent he knows means love.

They stay like that for a long time. Tyrell gently bounces Elliot until he’s much calmer, rocking him, murmuring sweet nothings in his ear. Though still trembling like a leaf, Elliot's tears start to dry.

“You’re safe,” Tyrell murmurs. He sounds very sad, and Elliot doesn’t quite grasp why. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here. You’re safe now.”

“Darlene?” Elliot asks, knotting his hands in Tyrell’s shirt, trying to get even closer. If he could climb into Tyrell’s skin and nestle there, he would.

“She’s just fine,” Tyrell says. “The wound is superficial. That means it looks worse than it is. She’s safe, too.”

Elliot’s grip loosens. He doesn’t _feel_ safe, but if Tyrell says they are, it must be true. He shudders, very relieved.

Though relieved, he’s also uncomfortable. He’s wet in the seat of his jeans and itchy-dry everywhere else. His face and hands are dirty, bloodied, and his tummy feels flippy-upset. He tries not to think about it, rubbing his cheek on the soft, well loved fabric of Tyrell’s sleep shirt, which he hadn't bothered to change out of.

“We have to get you cleaned up,” Tyrell tells him, sensing Elliot’s discomfort in the way only he could.

Elliot’s first instinct is to shake his head, because though he wants to be clean, Darlene is going to _know._ She’s going to think he’s a freak, and never want to talk to him ever again. Forever and ever and ever, amen.

“No? You don’t want to be clean?” Tyrell asks, pressing a kiss to Elliot’s temple. Elliot sighs, going slightly boneless. He’s still fearful – and worried for and about Darlene – but this is okay. Tyrell made it better, same as he always did.

“Yes, you do,” Tyrell answers, when Elliot doesn’t say anything. “You want to get all squeaky-clean, so we can go home, and you can get all set up with Crescent and Dollie and your green blanket. Doesn’t that sound nice?”

It _did_ sound nice. Elliot would also like his pacifier, and maybe a cuddle, but he doesn’t bother to say it. Tyrell would just figure it out, the way he was so good at. Elliot sniffles, his fight giving way.

“There we go,” Tyrell soothes. His voice is as light as a feather. “It’s been a tough night, hasn’t it? My poor _älskling._ ”

Tyrell goes through the motions he knows by heart by now: dislodging a clingy Elliot, cleaning him up, pulling a diaper between his skinny thighs. He runs two fingers around the legs holes, puffing them out, hopefully preventing any leaks. He pays special attention to the grime caked on Elliot’s hands, scrubbing with a baby wipe, knowing he liked to put fingers in his mouth.

Elliot whines during the changing, which is unusual. But then again, the cramped bathroom isn’t their warm, happy home, and his drop hadn’t been an easy one. Tyrell shushes him, but easily lets it go. He understands. He’s tired and cranky, too.

Tyrell wraps Elliot’s soiled pants in the bag he’d brought, vaguely thinking about getting a proper diaper bag at some point. They had never gone out when Elliot was small, but he hoped that one day they would. He can just imagine a trip to the zoo, or out for ice cream, or something like that. Something Elliot could cherish happily, even when he was big again.

When Tyrell finishes, Elliot holds up his arms in a very toddler-like fashion. A silent request to be held.

It breaks Tyrell’s heart to deny him, but there was no telling how Darlene would react to Elliot bundled in Tyrell’s arms. Adult Elliot would never forgive him if she flipped shit.

“No, honey. Hold my hand instead,” Tyrell says. Elliot fusses, wanting _up._ Still, he takes Tyrell’s hand and allows himself to be shown from the bathroom.

Darlene is smoking the last bit of her cigarette when they emerge, probing at her injured side. She walks slightly favoring her right when she meets them, but other than that, Elliot’s stitching job seemed to be holding up nicely.

“You should really go to the hospital,” Tyrell tells her. Elliot’s hand remains tightly in his. “It looked alright, but infection…”

“I’ll get some Benadryl,” Darlene deadpans. “Don’t worry about me. Elliot? You good?”

Elliot whimpers very softly and tries to hide behind Tyrell. Darlene mouth falls slightly open, cig still dangling from it. She catches herself and clamps her lips together, but her eyes flicker between her brother and Tyrell, and back again.

“Darlene –“ Tyrell says. It’s not his place to spill the beans, especially not when Elliot’s like this, but there’s no real sense in hiding it. He compromises with himself.

“Elliot’s not in his usual state of mind right now, is the best way I can put it. I can’t really say much more than that until he’s feeling better, do you get that?” he asks.

Darlene blinks. If Tyrell were to listen close enough, he would hear the gears in her head, working all this over. “I mean," her voice is slightly shrill, unbelieving. "I guess.”

“Would you like to spend the night at our apartment?” Tyrell asks suddenly, and that really throws Darlene for a loop. She nearly drops the cigarette from her mouth that time.

“Yes – I can keep an eye on your wound, and when Elliot feels better, you can talk to him. Yes,” he says, more to himself than anyone else. “Yes, that’ll do. Please come home with us. We more than have the room.”

“I –“ Darlene flounders for what to say. She has her own apartment, but that’ll mean spending the night hurting, alone. And she wants to know what the fuck is up with her brother, anyway. Why he’s letting Tyrell do all the heavy lifting, all of the sudden.

“Come on,” Tyrell tells Elliot quietly, and ushers him towards the exit of the warehouse. Elliot clings to Tyrell’s hand, clutching on tight, and when he walks, he waddles slightly. Darlene, at an utter loss, can do nothing but follow.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pls enjoy :3c

Their apartment is significantly cozier than what Darlene expected. Elliot’s old digs had always been threadbare, and though she’d never seen where Tyrell lived, she’d expected nothing but sterility from him. She expected hyper-modern art, expensive portraits mounted on pale, lifeless walls. She figured she was going to have to tip-toe around, lest she disturb his ugly interior design.

She wasn’t expecting the homey, plaid curtains drawn around the windows, or the plush leather couch. Nor the warm, earthy colors of the walls. Not even the framed, couple-y pictures, of Tyrell and Elliot smiling goofily at the camera like they couldn’t get enough of it, or each other.

She _definitely_ wasn’t expecting the kid’s toys that laid scattered around, soft and colorful at her feet. Did Tyrell have siblings, or nieces and nephews, or something?

Both Tyrell and Elliot visibly relax once they’re inside. Elliot whines softly, eyelids fluttering as he works to stay awake. Darlene is visibly confused, but she can’t help it. She can’t ever remember Elliot acting this way. Even at eight years old, he seemed, to her, to be the pillar of maturity.

Through the whole cab ride Elliot had been like this, fussing and pawing at Tyrell, seemingly to make sure he was still there. He was utterly exhausted and overwhelmed, and Tyrell murmured to him through it, whispered loving things Darlene couldn’t hear. He acted like Elliot’s behavior was the most normal thing in the world.

Tyrell had told her to wait to ask him questions, so she did – but that didn’t stop her from peering curiously at her brother, watching him from the corner of her eye.

“I’ll be right back,” Tyrell says to Darlene. He works slow, soothing circles into Elliot’s back, and Elliot slumps against him, a satisfied hum coming from the back of his throat.

“Make yourself at home,” Tyrell says kindly. He takes his gaze from Elliot to smile at Darlene. The look in his eyes startingly genuine: he really wants her to be comfortable.

Darlene doesn’t know what to do with that.

All this time, she had written Tyrell off as nothing more than a leech on their work with fsociety. She saw him as a corporate pig, one who was trying to bail water from his sinking capitalist ship by elbowing into their operation. She doesn’t know how to handle this – this compassion? This care?

They don’t even know each other, really. What was his angle here? What did he want from her?

Tyrell and Elliot disappear into their bedroom, leaving Darlene alone in the living room. Her injured side throbs dully as she stands, so she deposits herself on the couch, hoping to relieve some of the hurt.

It’s incredible to her what a home Elliot had gained in Tyrell. This is a far cry from his old place, his water damaged shoebox in the bad part of town. Besides the frameless mattress in the middle of the floor, his only real personal effect had been their old family photo – and, of course, his beloved computer terminal.

That photo is framed now, its creases smoothed out, sitting on an oak credenza across from the couch. Darlene looks at her child-self, stuck next to Elliot and their parents, and shakes her head. Funny, almost, that a memory of their terrible, damaged childhood could end up here, where Elliot was so safe and loved.

Pictures of what can only be Tyrell and his mother are there, too, but far outnumbering anything else is the ones of Elliot and Tyrell together. Elliot and Tyrell at Coney Island. Elliot and Tyrell at some kind of concert. A picture of Elliot holding Flipper, beaming, with Tyrell’s blurry hand caught in the frame.

She’s still looking at that one, at how damn _happy_ Elliot looks, when Tyrell emerges from the bedroom. He’s carrying pillows and blankets, looking groggy.

“Here,” Tyrell says, and Darlene takes them. They smell like fabric softener, and that brings it full circle for her. People not in it for the long haul don’t bother with Downy.

“Would you like anything?” Tyrell asks her, stifling a yawn. “Coffee, tea? Milk? Water?”

Darlene blinks at him, dully petting at the sheets. Suddenly, Flipper appears from under Tyrell’s feet and starts barking at Darlene. The passionate yips say she thinks she’s more guard dog than she is.

“Hush, Flipper,” Tyrell tells the little dog sternly. “Elliot’s asleep.”

She stops in her tracks, understanding the command. She drops onto her haunches, settling into a growl.

“Forgot me already, huh?” Darlene asks her, feeling both amused and a teeny bit upset. She’d always liked Flipper. She holds out a hand for the dog to sniff.

_Good girl, being a distraction,_ she thinks. _You’ve got fantastic timing._

Flipper forgets her guarding easily, submitting to a pet from Darlene. Tyrell hovers over the couch for a moment, like he’s still itching to find her something to drink, but when the silence grows awkward, he gets the hint.

“Take anything you want from the fridge,” he says. “Bathroom’s down the hall. And try not to pull your stitches – I’ll get sutures tomorrow. They hold up much better.”

Darlene nods, still looking down at Flipper. “Thanks, Tyrell. G’night.”

“Yes, of course,” he says stiffly, surprised at any warmth from her. “Good night.”

It’s only when the bedroom door clicks shut does Darlene look up from the dog, and sighs. She still has her questions, all of them centered around Elliot, but it was fruitless to wonder right now. She spreads the sheets over the couch, kicks off her shoes, and tries to get some sleep.

It feels like only a few moments have gone by before Darlene is startled awake by crying. Not just crying – _wailing._ The kind of wailing that takes effort, full body effort, to make such a distressed sound.

She sits up too quickly and winces, feeling her injury, checking for blood. When she’s sure she hasn’t pulled a stitch, she gets up, hellbent on locating the sound. She nearly slams right into Tyrell.

Tyrell, who’s holding the maker of the sound – Elliot. Elliot, who clings tightly to him, arms around his neck and legs around his waist. His face is splotchy mess, screwed up and red; he scrubs futilely at it with his fists. He sees her and squeaks, hiding his face in Tyrell’s shoulder. He’s still crying, though: Darlene can tell by the way his chest heaves.

“He had a nightmare,” Tyrell says, by way of explanation. He supports Elliot with one hand around his middle, one tucked under his rear – under his diaper.

Darlene freezes, stupefied, unable to tear her eyes away. Her brother is, very clearly, wearing a diaper. He has no pants on, which she supposes is pretty usual for sleeping, but that white bulk is unmistakable. She could go a thousand years without seeing a diaper and still know what was peaking out from under Elliot’s shirt.

Tyrell catches her expression and frowns, adjusting Elliot in his arms. Elliot whimpers wetly. “Let me – let me take care of him, and then we’ll talk, okay? Just… please don’t judge him too harshly for this. It’s helped him a lot.”

Darlene’s brain is working rapidly to catch up, to fit all the pieces together. The toys on the floor. The way Elliot acted in the cab. Tyrell edging her out of the bathroom, Elliot’s slight waddle when he walked…

Shit. She just hoped it wasn’t some weird sex thing. Kink and let kink, but… that’d just be too much for her to deal with. She couldn’t – and wouldn’t – stick around, should it be Tyrell got off on Elliot’s tears.

Darlene doesn’t respond, only stares, and Tyrell’s frown deepens. He rhythmically pats Elliot’s back, the way you would soothe an infant, and steps around her to the kitchen.

She turns and watches, dumbfounded, as he flicks the light on and rummages through the refrigerator, talking to Elliot all the while. Tyrell doesn’t set him down for a minute, and while Elliot is skinny enough, someone less experienced might still have difficulty. Tyrell, however, does it with relaxed, practiced ease.

She catches Elliot looking at her more than once, but every time she meets his eyes, he buries his face back into the crook of Tyrell’s neck.

Weird as it is, it strikes Darlene how natural they look. They fit perfectly – Elliot cuddled in Tyrell’s arms, Tyrell holding him close, like he weighed nothing. Their movement around the kitchen is an orchestrated dance. This is clearly not the first time they’ve had a late, upsetting night.

She’s reminded of the photos in the living room. Tyrell takes care of Elliot more than anyone, besides herself, had ever tried to. Was it possible this was only an extension of that?

When they’re done in the kitchen, Tyrell situates them on the couch, glancing back at Darlene like he’s expecting her to follow. She moves slowly, half afraid to startle Elliot, half biding her time before diving into this… Whatever _‘this’_ is.

Elliot is finally quiet, and regards Darlene with his big, intrusive eyes. The eyes they shared, had always shared, and often tipped people off that they were siblings more than anything else. He’s clutching a pink stuffed cat. An honest-to-God baby bottle, one made to fit an adult’s mouth, sits in his lap.

_That must have been what they were doing in the kitchen_ , Darlene thinks. She sits, and pointedly tries not to stare.

Surprising all of them, it’s Elliot that speaks first.

“Hurt?” he asks her, because of course he does. He’s still worried.

His voice is achingly soft and sweet, a little crease forming between his brows. Warmth blooms in Darlene’s chest, and she smiles despite herself, despite everything that’s so odd about this. She nods.

“I was,” she says. “But I’ll be okay. I heal quick.”

That’s a satisfying answer, apparently, because Elliot leans back against Tyrell, almost shrinking into him. He rests his head on Tyrell’s shoulder, bringing the bottle to his mouth. It’s weirdly intimate – he looks so innocent and vulnerable like this. Breakable and precious.

Tyrell pulls Elliot closer, smooths the messy waves of hair back from his forehead. Elliot’s eyes slide closed. The sun is just barely peaking through the blinds, and Darlene herself feels a sudden wave of tiredness.

“So,” she says, short and to the point. “What the fuck?”

Tyrell grins. “This is probably so strange for you,” he says. “To see your big brother like this.”

Elliot’s eyes flutter open, recognizing himself in Tyrell’s words. He falls back under quickly, the motion of Tyrell’s hand in his hair and nursing at his bottle lulling him back to half-sleep.

“Uh-huh,” Darlene says, aware that she’s being a bit rude. “You gonna explain it, or what?”

He nods. “Have you ever heard of age play?”

Oh, fucking Jesus. “The _sex thing?_ ”

Tyrell laughs gently. “Could be, I guess,” he says. “But not for us.”

“I’m sure you know how he is,” Tyrell says, fondly glancing at Elliot’s peaceful, sleepy face. “Gets all wrapped up in his work, stresses himself out to no end, doesn’t take the time to rest or ask for help.”

She did know. She, too, fell prey to those habits, but she’d been trying to get Elliot to break them for years and years. Since they were teenagers.

“I found out he was interested in age play, and rolled with it,” he says. “It was something he wanted and needed, and I wanted to give it to him. I’m not as rigid as you may think.”

“We still have our hard days, days like today, and the nightmares are pretty regular. But I like to think we’re happy. This helps us be happy; take a little stress from the both of us.”

Darlene frowns slightly. She’d been so ready to jump down Tyrell’s throat, but between his explanation and the look on Elliot’s face, she knows it’s innocent. She couldn’t say it didn’t make sense, either – they weren’t afforded the childhood comfort most kids got. She could cope, somewhat, but Elliot had always faced the brunt of it.

Tyrell was trying to fill in, just a little. She felt the need to _thank_ him, not berate him.

“Oh,” she says quietly. “Sorry, I… I just assumed the worst.”

Tyrell nods. “I get that. You worry about your brother. He worries about you, too.”

Ah, the Alderson family values. Elliot’s eyes open a sliver, and he pulls the bottle from his mouth, holds it out to Tyrell.

He’s still Elliot, but he’s also so much softer, so much more open than Darlene’s closed off big bro. It wouldn’t be right to insult something like this. It gave him peace. She makes a funny face at him, crossing her eyes and sticking out her tongue, and Elliot giggles.

She had never, ever heard him giggle like that, and, for a moment, it leaves her breathless.

“ _Dah_ -lean,” Elliot says, her name rounded by his clumsy toddler tongue. “All better?”

Tyrell’s expression is downright mushy, watching them have this exchange. Darlene smiles, holds out her hand to Elliot, which he grips without hesitation.

“Yeah, Elli,” she says. “I’m all better now.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope everyone is well and washing their hands lots!!! stay safe and healthy out there!!!

Elliot is fast asleep again by the time the sun’s fully risen, golden beams poking through the curtain gaps. He’s entirely serene, breathing easily, encircled in Tyrell’s arms. His fingers are securely tucked in his mouth.

Darlene’s right there with him, dozing beside them with a throw pillow squashed under her chin. Tyrell doesn’t sleep. Instead, he watches over the Alderson siblings with a fond gaze, grateful beyond grateful to be squeezed on this couch with them. For now, all is right in the world.

Elliot snuffles a little, not yet stirring, but coming up out of deeper sleep. Tyrell shifts him up and pats his bottom, finding him to be unsurprisingly wet.

Though it embarrassed him deeply, Elliot really did need the diapers. Whether it was a lack of focus, bladder size, or some hellish combination of the two, there had been times that even big Elliot had been caught by surprise. More than once, Tyrell had found him halfway to the toilet, pants wet and face burning, blinking back tears.

Tyrell occasionally wondered about the psychology of it, if there was a way to ‘fix’ it. That is, if Elliot ever wanted to. There certainly would never be any pressure from Tyrell. He quite enjoyed the bonding and trust that went into a changing, especially poking at Elliot’s toes, or blowing a raspberry on his tummy to give him a pleasant distraction.

Tyrell felt as though the bonds of their relationship were strong, if his guarded Elliot could be vulnerable that way.

Tyrell stands, and holds Elliot tightly, secured towards his chest so he doesn’t jostle. Darlene immediately takes their spot. She stretches luxuriously into the free space and sighs, not really awake, but drifting in that strange place of not-unconscious.

Tyrell glances down at her. He’s sure it was Elliot that made the difference in her comfort. He tried, because he genuinely wanted them to get along – but no one was going to sway her the way Elliot could. He knew that already. Their siblings’ bond rose from the ashes of their childhood, and he couldn’t compete with that, not that he even wanted to.

He didn’t expect he could be for Darlene what he was for Elliot, anyway, age play aside. But if she felt at all secure in their home, that was good enough for him.

Tyrell shuts the bedroom door with his heel, and lays Elliot flat on their bed, cradling his head as if he were really a baby. It was hard not to feel that way, especially when he was like this, all cuddly and sleepy, in nothing but a soft t-shirt and a diaper.

Tyrell is fairly diligent in cleaning Elliot up. You’ve done it once you’ve done it a thousand times. It isn’t hard to change a diaper, no matter the size.

Elliot starts to stir as Tyrell finishes, and he groans, swiping at his eyes. When he opens them, staring at Tyrell in his unintentionally intense way, Tyrell knows he’s not little anymore.

“Good morning, my love,” Tyrell says. He leans back down to give Elliot a kiss, which he pleasantly returns, a little smile quirking on his lips.

“Mm, morning,” Elliot says. He pulls himself up, his bare feet dangling off the bed. He blinks sleepily, getting adjusted to the waking world, quiet for a few moments.

Then, in a voice dripping in absolute horror, “Oh, _God.”_

Tyrell stops dead, whips around from disposing of the diaper, fully focused on Elliot. The way atmosphere just plummeted; you’d think someone died.

“What?” Tyrell’s voice is careful and calm, though slightly pitched with worry. “What happened?”

Elliot runs his hands through his hair, but rather than scrub through, he grips hard. It knots through his fingers, and he _pulls,_ until his face screws up in pain and Tyrell understands what he’s doing. He didn’t do it often, but when he felt he truly deserved punishment, he’d do it to himself.

“Elliot! Hey!” He sweeps over to the bed and seizes Elliot’s angry, scrunched fingers. “Hands aren’t for hurting, baby, you know that. What’s the matter? What happened?”

Elliot tries to twist away, flailing as if electrocuted. But Tyrell is bigger and stronger, and he’s determined not to let Elliot hurt himself.

Tyrell isn’t entirely sure of what he’s dealing with here, as Elliot didn’t usually throw any kind of tantrum. Conversely, it was Tyrell who got himself into that kind of tizzy, his emotions ripping out of him, taking down everything in their path. It had been quite a while since even that had happened, but this behavior still reminded him more of himself than Elliot.

“Breathe, Elliot,” Tyrell says, forcing calm. It never hurt to breathe. He breathes in through his nose and out through his mouth, demonstrating. “With me, okay? In and out.”

Elliot mimics him, then huffs deeply and does it again. He goes boneless, drops heavily onto the bed. Slowly, he stops the wriggling. Tyrell holds him firmly by the shoulders and sets him right side up again.

“Do you want to tell me what’s wrong?”

Elliot looks away. Tyrell is holding him right at eye level, squatting so their faces are inches apart. Elliot squirms in place, uncomfortable, and acutely aware of the diaper between his legs.

His face is burning, and he’d like to be anywhere but here, having to explain himself – and he hates that, too. He loves his home, and he loves Tyrell, and he doesn’t like not feeling good here. He feels like there’s a pit in his stomach, an ugly black vortex, sucking out all the good things.

He has to work really, really hard not to cry.

“Darlene,” he says, equal parts upset and afraid. “She’s here. She _knows.”_

Tyrell blanks, confused. That was the last thing he was expecting Elliot to say, what with how they had interacted that night. Then again, it was clear adult Elliot didn’t have the same kind of cognizance his little self did. Little Elliot didn’t dwell or overanalyze every interaction. He wasn’t paranoid, and while he could get very concerned and afraid, it was nothing a reassuring cuddle couldn’t fix.

That was part of why this worked so well for stress-relief. Nothing else came close to age play when it came to getting Elliot out of his own head.

“Of course, she knows,” Tyrell says slowly, pushing a single curl away from Elliot’s forehead. He was going to need a haircut soon. “What’s wrong with that?”

“She’s gonna hate me,” Elliot explains in a tiny, heartbroken voice.

_Oh,_ Tyrell thinks, feeling very slow. Elliot thought Darlene was going to have a negative reaction to it all, now that he was big again. Well, somewhat bigger. Tyrell thought he was probably teetering on the edge.

Of course, he was still afraid of his sister’s reaction. He didn’t see her face go all soft last night or hear the conversation between her and Tyrell. He probably assumed that, because his method of coping was somewhat unconventional, Darlene was going to thumb her nose at it. It was unfounded – Darlene definitely wasn’t any kind of conservative - but fears didn’t work through logic.

“Elliot,” Tyrell says, gentle but firm. Something in his voice makes Elliot look up, staring with watery eyes.

“Darlene doesn’t mind, sweetheart. She’s happy for you. She thinks this is a good thing, and more than that, she _loves_ you. Nothing is going to change that.”

Elliot sticks his arms out, and Tyrell scoops him into a hug.

“It’s weird,” Elliot says in a tiny voice.

Tyrell gives him a squeeze. “Maybe. But when you think about it, so are a lot of things. This is good for us, don’t you think?”

Elliot doesn’t hesitate to nod against Tyrell’s chest. Nothing has ever made him feel so safe, and comforted, and loved. Even so, he does somewhat wish it was more socially acceptable.

“I think so too. And Darlene. Everyone’s on the same page here, so you don’t have to worry about it. Okay?”

Elliot’s fingers have found their way back into his mouth, and he sucks at them anxiously.

“’M little again,” he says, lisping softly. “Sorry.”

“You don’t have to be sorry for that,” Tyrell assures him. He must know that by now, on some level, but they were still scrubbing through those layers of guilt piled inside him. For now, all Tyrell could really do was make sure he heard it often.

“Hungry,” Elliot murmurs, still working his mouth around his fingers.

“Yeah?” Tyrell says, smiling. Elliot didn’t often ask to eat, so this was an automatic win. “Does oatmeal sound good?”

Elliot nods. He doesn’t really care, as long as it’s food. He grabs Crescent from where she’d been abandoned in the covers and clumsily slides off the bed, the promised oatmeal the only thing on his brain. He whines when Tyrell catches him gently by the waist.

“Got to get dressed first, _sötnos_.”

He submits to shorts being pulled over his hips and a t-shirt pulled over his head. He even helps by pushing his arms through the sleeves, all by himself! Tyrell praises him, and it leaves a warm feeling in his tummy. He only slightly frowns when Tyrell clips a binky onto his collar. He thinks his fingers are much better.

Elliot toddles out of the bedroom, feeling much better, until he catches sight of Darlene, who’s fully awake and tacking something out on her phone. He moans quietly and backs into Tyrell, who steadies him by the shoulders.

“It’s okay, my love. You can go say hi while I make breakfast.”

Elliot doesn’t like that idea one bit, but before he can argue, Darlene looks up. She smiles very kindly at him, not at all like she thought he was weird or gross. Huh.

“Hey guys,” she says.

“Good morning,” Tyrell says brightly, and before Elliot really knows what going on, Tyrell is plunking him down next to his sister. “I’m going to make breakfast. How do you like your eggs, Darlene?”

“Oh, man, you don’t have to –“

Tyrell waves a hand at her. “I’m making breakfast. Over easy, or sunny-side-up?”

An extremely soft look flashes over Darlene’s face, but it’s gone just as quickly. “Over easy. Thank you.”

Tyrell nods, and pats Elliot’s back reassuringly, before disappearing into the kitchen. Darlene looks Elliot over – his hair is messy, he’s holding a stuffed cat to his chest, and there’s a pacifier clipped to the collar of his shirt, which is patterned with Care Bears. It’s… different, for sure. But not a bad different.

“Hi,” she says lamely. God, how did you talk to kids? Did Elliot even want to be talked to that way?

“Hi,” he says back, fidgeting with the fur of his cat.

Darlene knows an opportunity when she sees one. “Who’s your friend?”

Elliot looks momentarily startled, like the cat was his alone to notice. He recovers before Darlene can feel too bad, though, and hold the stuffed animal out for her to see.

It was a well-loved thing, fur smoothed back by many rubs against fingers and faces. It had shiny black beads for eyes, a stitched little nose, and pinky-tinted fur. Darlene reaches out and pets it as if it’s a real cat.

“He’s very friendly,” she says, and Elliot’s face lights up. She’s said the right thing.

“She,” he corrects. “Crescent.”

“My bad,” Darlene says. “ _She’s_ very well behaved. I bet she doesn’t bite, or anything, does she?”

“No,” Elliot says, and hugs the cat back to his chest. “Good kitty.”

“Do you remember our kitty? Moonpie?” Darlene asks. “It was a long time ago, but I remember she got up to all kinds of shi – all kinds of stuff.”

Darlene launches into a story about their childhood pet that Elliot quickly gets engrossed in, though he was there to witness it. Before long, Tyrell comes back from the kitchen, to find Elliot smushed under Darlene’s arm, listening to her talk about a cat named after a confectionery.

“Rell,” Elliot greets, and Tyrell picks him up, setting him on his hip. Darlene blinks at them, not quite used to that, yet.

“Breakfast is done,” Tyrell tells her, and they sit down to eat together, as the strange, knitted family they were slowly becoming.


End file.
